


Share

by s0mmerspr0ssen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, Incest, M/M, Sharing, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:32:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0mmerspr0ssen/pseuds/s0mmerspr0ssen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Mycroft know of the importance of sharing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Share

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to the wonderful kholly for being my more than helpful beta!  
> Written for a prompt on the kink meme.
> 
> ________
> 
>  **Important Note:**
> 
> I don’t know about an underage warning, because Wikipedia has me confused on age of consent in England. Ignoring the issue of incest, I don’t think it’s legally possible for a 16 year old to have consensual sex with somebody 18yrs+ when they’re in a certain kind of trust dynamic?
> 
> For my German understanding, age of consent is 14, so I don’t read it as underage or unconsensual, but I don’t really know what the law in England is or what the fandom rules tend to be. 
> 
> As it is, there’s not an explicit scene, just the statement that it happened when Sherlock was still a teen.

Mycroft would never forget the wide-eyed look on Sherlock’s face when Mummy, on a rather wet and gloomy Sunday, sat them down in the winter garden for an important talk.  
  
Back then, Sherlock still was innocent. People tended to believe that somebody like Mycroft’s little brother would be born a brat, only to grow into an even bigger one, but they were wrong.  
  
For the first few years of his life, Sherlock was naive and nosy and oftentimes very annoying, but not malicious or terribly conceited. Like all children, he could be petty and acted immature, but back then, he hadn’t yet faced the cruel fate of having a mind just a bit too bright to make it through life unscarred. In fact, young Sherlock could actually be quite sweet.  
  
So when Mummy told them, calmly but firmly, about the importance of sharing, Sherlock not only listened attentively, but buried the knowledge somewhere in the very back of his high-functioning brain, anchoring it firmly in a place where it could never be touched or altered, let alone deleted.  
  
“Sharing,” Mummy had said, looking at them with serious eyes, “is important. If you are rich and others starve, it is decent to share your wealth and help them. However, an even stronger gesture is sharing what is most important to you. If two people are starving, and one gets a small piece of bread, sharing that small piece will mean much more than sharing an entire loaf. If you share what is most important to you, it will show just how much you care.”  
  
When she paused, Mycroft and Sherlock had nodded carefully. But Mummy hadn’t been done yet.  
  
“Now, do you know who we care about the most?” she asked.  
  
Mycroft had an inkling, but knew not to interrupt Mummy when she looked quite so serious.  
  
“We care most for our family,” she continued, smiling a bit as she looked at her sons. “And to remind each other that we do, even after an argument or fight, we share our most important and beloved things with each other. That is how much we love our family. Do you understand that?”  
  
Looking awed, Sherlock had nodded fervently, and though Mycroft had left that kind of open emotional display behind once he had started to attend school, he felt equally touched by their mother’s words. He inclined his head.  
  
“Good,” Mummy had said, and placed a brief kiss on each of their foreheads. “Now, if Sherlock would like to look at one of your books, Mycroft, what will you say?”  
  
“That he may have it,” he answered dutifully, though was sure to add, “but only if he doesn’t break or stain it.”  
  
Mummy nodded.  
  
“Of course he won’t,” she stated. “He knows how much it means to you. It would be a poor deed to break what was given with love - is that not so, Sherlock?”  
  
And Sherlock, little Sherlock, who had not an hour earlier screamed and raged at Mycroft for not sharing his precious books, looked up at him and nodded solemnly, promising not to break something that was shared with him in love.  
  
___  
  
The first time Mycroft realised that Mummy’s words might extend to more than books and favourite toys was the day Mycroft brought home a friend.  
  
Mycroft had never invited another child to their home before. It had taken him a while to find the right kind of behaviour that would not drive people away, but lure them in instead. To make friends, Mycroft was slowly learning, sometimes meant having to pretend you were different from how you actually are.  
  
In Mycroft’s case, it meant not showing how clever or observant he was. Instead he had to blend in, collect information and say and do things in the right place at the right time.  
  
One afternoon, Mycroft opened the door to let Victor Trevor into his home.  
  
Victor was quiet but smart, Mycroft had found. Not as smart as Mycroft, but smart enough to find discussing a book they had both read an appropriate pastime for an hour or two. Mycroft genuinely enjoyed his company, so when Victor proposed they play a game, Mycroft was happy to lead him into the parlour where the wooden chess board was resting on a table by the tall windows.  
  
They set up the pieces, polished and smooth from years of being touched and moved around, and started playing.  
  
Naturally, Sherlock had to interrupt sooner or later.  
  
“Mycroft,” he cried enthusiastically as he stormed into the room, a thick book clutched to his chest, “Mycroft, have you seen what it says on page-” He stopped dead when he caught sight of Victor.  
  
Sherlock looked him over with narrowed eyes.  
  
“My brother, Sherlock,” Mycroft introduced them. “Sherlock, this is Victor, a friend from school.”  
  
“I didn’t know you had a younger brother,” Victor said before turning to smile at Sherlock. “It’s nice to meet you, Sherlock. I have a sister roughly your age, although I’m not sure she can read anything that heavy yet.”  
  
Victor nodded towards the thick tome in Sherlock’s arms, eyes crinkling kindly.  
  
Sherlock instantly smiled back - and promptly settled down next to Victor once he had dragged over another chair.  
  
At first, Mycroft felt jealous. Victor had come over for Mycroft, not Sherlock. Victor was Mycroft’s friend. His first, and quite a good one. And now Sherlock was sitting next to him, talking to him, distracting him from the game. This wasn’t what Mycroft had wanted.  
  
In the evening, with Victor gone, Mycroft cornered his brother.  
  
“You’re to stay away when Victor is here,” he said sharply. “I don’t want you around when he visits, is that clear?”  
  
Sherlock glared at him defiantly.  
  
“No!” was his only reply.  
  
“Yes,” Mycroft pressed. “You have no business interrupting us. I am sure Victor was properly annoyed with your endless chatter by the time he left.”  
  
“No, he wasn’t,” Sherlock argued. “He _liked_ me. He was nice.”  
  
“Well, he’s not your friend, but _mine_!” Mycroft retorted hotly, half-yelling and showing more of his emotions than he had intended to.  
  
Sherlock cringed back, then dropped his gaze with slumping shoulders. By now Sherlock was fairly good at shamming and playacting, but Mycroft could see that this was a genuine display of disappointment.  
  
“You want him to yourself,” Sherlock murmured towards the floor, clearly upset. “You don’t want ... you don’t want to share?”  
  
At that pronouncement, Mycroft caved almost instantly.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he replied, if a bit stiffly. “I didn’t mean that. Of course I’ll share. He can be _our_ friend.”  
  
___  
  
Attending grammar school, it took Mycroft a while to figure out what the strange churning in his stomach might mean whenever he spent a lot of time in close proximity to the other boys.  
  
When he finally understood, he instantly moderated his behaviour, trying to keep distance between himself and others, and was careful to keep himself in check.  
  
However, approaching his majority, Mycroft realised that suppressing certain urges would be next to impossible. Especially when, growing older and losing the last of his childhood chubbiness, Mycroft turned out to be what most people would call unconventionally attractive.  
  
As soon as he entered university, Mycroft had a hard time ignoring the promising looks he tended to receive as he walked the halls.  
  
Finding a lover, really, was inevitable. As was Sherlock finding out about it.  
  
Teenaged Sherlock was far removed from the wide-eyed toddler listening to Mummy’s words. By now, Sherlock knew just how many friends a highly intelligent child like Sherlock tended to make, especially combined with the kind of curiousness Sherlock had always displayed and his tendency to miss social clues. The correct number usually amounts to zero.  
  
Among other things, the result was an almost constantly displayed snarl and a severe smoking habit, both of which Mycroft had the questionable privilege to witness when one night his brother showed up at Mycroft's door still wearing his school uniform. His hair and jacket were soaked from the autumn rain, but apparently the water hadn’t been enough to extinguish the cigarette resting between Sherlock’s lips.  
  
Scowling at Mycroft’s raised eyebrows, Sherlock blew the smoke right into his face.  
  
“I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t care. If you don’t let me in, I will sleep on the streets, and what will Mummy have to say about that?”  
  
Knowing when to pick his battles, Mycroft wordlessly stepped aside and let his brother in.  
  
“Shoes,” was his only comment when he closed the door behind Sherlock. Although he sent Mycroft a death-glare, Sherlock did bow down to remove them.  
  
Sighing, Mycroft moved to the living room where Paul was still sitting on the sofa, a glass of red wine resting in his hand.  
  
Mycroft had picked Paul mainly because he was quiet, punctual and terribly in love. Mycroft couldn’t say that he felt just as much in return, though didn’t see why that was a problem. They both got what they wanted, after all: several times a week, Paul received Mycroft’s undivided attention and the occasional romantic dinner; in return, Mycroft had a loyal and discreet outlet for his sexual urges and a fairly bright mind to bounce ideas and worries at.  
  
Too, Mycroft was a hundred percent sure Paul would hold his tongue once their liaison ended. For now, he was the perfect partner.  
  
“My brother has decided to show up,” Mycroft announced, sending Paul an apologetic look. After all, they had intended this night to be one of intimacy. “I am sorry.”  
  
“Sherlock?” Paul asked, eyes flickering towards the door. “Really?”  
  
“I’m afraid so,” Mycroft confirmed, just as Sherlock’s lanky frame appeared in the living room.  
  
By now, Sherlock had quickly outgrown childhood. It was clear that he would make a handsome man for most of his life.  
  
High cheekbones and dark curls, as it seemed, could turn even the most loyal lover’s head. Mycroft watched in interest as Paul, usually so very careful not to stray, gave Sherlock a pointed once-over before hurriedly taking a sip of wine to cover his reaction.  
  
Paul liked what he saw.  
  
Mycroft didn’t know whether to be jealous or merely resigned.  
  
“And who might you be?” Sherlock said dryly, eyes roaming as he observed Paul. “Let’s see - fairly expensive clothes, so definitely going to the same overpriced university my brother is attending. There’s a hint of brown sauce on your left cheek - Mycroft has taken you out for some fancy dinner. You’re comfortable enough on the sofa, meaning you’ve been here before and both the surroundings and the situation are familiar. You knew my name without Mycroft having to tell you, so he often talks to you about personal and private things. Red wine for winding down, half the bottle is gone already. Really, the only question that remains is: just how long have you been fucking my brother?”  
  
Mycroft cleared his throat.  
  
“Excuse my brother’s awful manners, Paul,” Mycroft said stiffly. “He has a tendency not to think before he opens his mouth.”  
  
Paul, who had been busy staring at Sherlock as he rattled off his deductions, turned his head to smile at Mycroft.  
  
“Oh, I am sure he was _thinking_. Quite an impressive speech, Sherlock, though I’m sure your brother is at least your match when it comes to being keenly observant.”  
  
Sherlock seemed surprised at the ease with which Paul had met his deductions. Narrowing his eyes in thought, Sherlock slipped onto the sofa, settling down next to the other man.  
  
“Mycroft could do even better if he weren’t so lazy,” Sherlock told him as he grabbed Mycroft’s wine glass without asking, emptying it in two long sips.  
  
Paul didn’t comment, though he did refill the glass with crinkling eyes.  
  
From then on, the outcome of this was inevitable. Mycroft didn’t need to be clever to realise that Sherlock was highly interested in Paul’s relationship with Mycroft.  
  
When eventually, Paul briefly left the room, Mycroft’s brother instantly turned an intense gaze towards him.  
  
“He likes me,” he said.  
  
Mycroft sighed: “Yes.”  
  
“You’re not happy.”  
  
“Not particularly, no.”  
  
“Why? Do you not like your loyal puppy to stray?”  
  
Mycroft shook his head.  
  
“No. Rather, I’m wondering how I will ever look Mummy in the eye again once I’ve seen you engage in sexual activities.”  
  
It was a right treat to see Sherlock look this shocked for a change.  
  
“You mean ...” he eventually managed to say, voice careful.  
  
“It means I will share. Yes.” Mycroft smiled dryly. “As it is, in this case sharing involves three parties rather than two, given that the shared object is not an object at all but rather a human being.”  
  
To say he was surprised by the utterly pleased look on Sherlock’s face would be an understatement. Mycroft had never thought Sherlock would look this delighted at the prospect of sleeping with brother's boyfriend _as well as his brother_.  
  
“You’ll share,” Sherlock repeated, and Mycroft felt a warmth rise in his cheeks he hadn’t felt in years.  
  
“You’ll find that I care about you rather a lot, Sherlock, no matter how much of a nuisance you tend to be.”  
  
For once, avoiding his younger brother’s eyes didn’t feel like defeat.  
  
Convincing Paul was no difficulty. Rather, he seemed to be relieved that Mycroft was not annoyed or angry with his attraction for his younger brother.  
  
Later, Mycroft would have to admit that the sex had been some of the best he’d ever had.  
  
___  
  
From then on, sharing lovers became something that was more or less a given.  
  
Well, really, it was Mycroft sharing with Sherlock, as his brother never engaged in any kind of dynamic that could possibly be called a serious relationship. Sherlock didn’t care for his one-night-stands - so why should he share?  
  
Any sex Sherlock had that didn’t involve Mycroft in some direct or indirect way happened exclusively with open-minded strangers that were of no importance to Sherlock beyond them giving him what he wanted at a particular moment.  
  
When Mycroft eventually decided, for the sake of his career, to drop any kind of sexual relationship all together, he should have known that Sherlock would never forgive him. He should have known Sherlock lived off the highly physical reminders that Mycroft cared, even loved him. He should have known that cutting Sherlock off so abruptly from something so deeply intimate would lead to his brother’s downfall.  
  
But even the greatest minds make mistakes.  
  
And so, Mycroft didn’t realise it until it was too late, didn’t see until Sherlock already knew the first name of any decent (or less so) drug dealer in Greater London and his beloved baby brother had been reduced to a terribly skinny, translucent copy of his former self.  
  
Forcing him to go clean certainly didn’t help matters.  
  
Once Sherlock had overcome his addictions, their relationship had turned from playfully antagonistic to icy. And it could have ended this way, of course. Watching Sherlock burn off his excess energy solving murder mysteries, Mycroft had been convinced that this _would_ be the end of it, that they would never go back to how things had been.  
  
But everything changed with John Watson.  
  
Sherlock actively seeking anyone’s companionship had been such an utterly unusual thing to happen that Mycroft had to intervene immediately. But John Watson hadn’t turned out to be a threat to Sherlock. Rather, John was an asset, if not Sherlock’s salvation.  
  
Mycroft didn’t need CCTV footage of heated kisses in dark alleyways and intimate touches in the doorway of 221B to know that soon, there was more between Sherlock and John than an unlikely friendship.  
  
Really, it soon became quite clear that not only was there a sexual relationship between the two men, but feelings of a depth that Mycroft had never seen his brother display. The only other person he had ever given such tender looks had been Mummy and, once upon a time when he felt unobserved, Mycroft himself.  
  
To see his brother genuinely care about another person was nearly breathtaking.  
  
What Mycroft hadn’t expected was Sherlock on his threshold on a stormy night, eerily reminding Mycroft of the day Sherlock had interrupted Paul and him as he shook the rain off his coat.  
  
“What brings you here, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked when they had retired to the sitting room. For once, he genuinely didn’t know what to expect.  
  
He hadn’t done anything to aggravate his brother, neither was Sherlock in trouble and had swallowed his pride to ask his brother for help. If Mycroft hadn’t known better, he would have called it a social call. But Sherlock looked too serious for that. In fact, Mycroft hadn’t seen him look like this in a while.  
  
“I have a proposal to make,” Sherlock told him.  
  
Mycroft stayed silent, willing his brother to explain further with a slight nod of his head.  
  
“Obviously, given your sickly obsessed interest in my life, you know that John and I are in a relationship. It’s fairly serious and though John hasn’t outwardly said so, I am confident that he intends this to be a long-term commitment, if not one for life.”  
  
Mycroft needed all his steeled self-control not to show any kind of reaction. Surely, Sherlock wasn’t trying to say what Mycroft thought he was saying. Surely, Sherlock had closed this chapter of their life firmly.  
  
“I ... care for him as well,” Sherlock continued, then cleared his throat in an untypical display of nervousness. “If I were one to use such inaccurate terms, one might even say that I love him.”  
  
Mycroft nodded sharply, and only once.  
  
“I haven’t forgotten what you’ve done for me,” Sherlock eventually said, eyes intense as he searched Mycroft’s face for any kind of clue. “And I’ve talked to John and while he doesn’t fully understand, he’s certainly willing ... if you are willing ... I mean ...”  
  
Seeing his ever-so-eloquent brother lost for words, Mycroft couldn’t help but break into a smile. The kind of smile he had forbidden himself for some time, the kind of smile that was out-of-place when dealing with diplomats, security breaches and the kinds of situations that decided over the lives of thousands of people.  
  
“You’re willing to share,” Mycroft said.  
  
Sherlock nodded hesitantly.  
  
Mycroft sent his brother a look that had to be more than soft with affection. Affection that he had believed lost in between endless shouting matches and Mycroft ordering his men to restrain Sherlock until he was over his drug habit.  
  
“I appreciate the gesture,” Mycroft said quietly. “But I don’t want you to feel obligated-”  
  
“No,” Sherlock immediately interrupted. He looked fierce. “It’s not obligation. I don’t feel like I owe you. It’s _not_ that, that’s not how sharing works. Don’t you remember what Mummy said?”  
  
He seemed frustrated by his inability to find the right words, balling a fist against his left thigh.  
  
“Mycroft,” he eventually said. “Just ... will you come over? Tomorrow night?”  
  
“Yes. Yes, of course. I’d be delighted to.”  
  
____  
  
When Mycroft arrived at Baker Street, it was already well dark outside. He left the car after instructing Anthea to take the rest of the night off, and watched it drive away before turning towards the brick building.  
  
Outside the green wooden door, Mycroft took a few seconds to merely breathe and reflect. As much as Sherlock's gesture had touched him, he was unsure about how this night might play out. He was genuinely fond of John, and one reason for that was his tendency to support Sherlock in anything, mad and dangerous or not, as well as his strong protective streak. John was more than special that way.  
  
But even a fearless soldier like him had limits. Maybe that limit would be reached tonight. Only going upstairs and confronting him would show.  
  
Breathing in deeply, Mycroft rang the doorbell instead of letting himself in by other means.  
  
It was John rather than Mrs Hudson who opened the door. Unusual, Mycroft thought, and quickly took in the man's appearance: John was dressed in one of his soft jumpers and a pair of simple jeans. The very tips of his hair still glistened slightly, speaking of a recent shower, and the tiniest of cuts by his right ear revealed a quick but thorough shave.  
  
Mycroft couldn't help but find John's appearance rather suggestive of tonight's possible activities.  
  
"Hello," John greeted him. "I'm glad you found the time."  
  
His voice sounded much warmer than usual. Mycroft wondered what Sherlock might have told him about their history, in particular on sharing. Clearly, something must have caused the change in John's usually much more reserved tone and stand when it came to dealing with Mycroft.  
  
"Good evening, John."  
  
They took the stairs in silence and entered the living room of 221B where Mycroft shrugged off his coat and hung it on the rack, using the time to observe the state of the room.  
  
It was much cleaner than usual, for a change, undoubtedly thanks to John. The bookshelf no longer looked cramped but organized, and both the sofa and the armchairs were void of experiments and paperwork and had instead been adorned with the curious collection of pillows and cushions Sherlock and John had acquired over time.  
  
All in all, it looked rather purposefully cosy. Mycroft couldn't help but feel a tad touched at so much obvious care to make him feel comfortable.  
  
"I don't know where Sherlock has gone off to, but as far as I know he's still in the flat. Or so I hope," John said, mirth as well as annoyance in his voice, undoubtedly a mix one had to get used to when living with Mycroft's brother.  
  
"I wouldn't put it past him to forget all about an invitation he has issued in the first place," Mycroft replied.  
  
John chuckled. Mycroft noticed soft crinkles around his eyes, so he was genuinely amused by Mycroft's statement.  
  
"I wouldn't either," he admitted. "I really wouldn't."  
  
"So much faith in my ability to recall such a simple thing as inviting my very own brother over? I am _ever_ so touched."  
  
Sherlock, emerging from his room with long strides, was wearing dress trousers and a simple white buttoned shirt. Socks or shoes, Mycroft observed, were missing, which gave his brother an unusually domestic appearance.  
  
"Oh, come off it," John laughed as Sherlock approached him, and swatted playfully at his friend's sulky expression. "You say yourself you immediately delete anything you don't deem important."  
  
"Yes, but this is far from dispensable."  
  
This pronouncement changed the mood in the room quite suddenly. Mycroft watched as John's smile receded, making place for a frown that wasn't exactly what one would call worried.  
  
"I can't deny being surprised by hearing you say so," Mycroft told his brother honestly.  
  
"I take that as a victory then," Sherlock responded smugly, "as it is usually so infuriatingly hard to surprise you with anything, brother."  
  
"I do have a knack for keeping informed," Mycroft admitted, but his eyes were still on John.  
  
The doctor was clearly surprised at their much more casual bickering. He had, after all, only ever see them spew hateful bile at each other, or observed them staring in hostile silence. This was new to him. Mycroft wasn't fully aware of just how much Sherlock had told him, but whatever it was had obviously not been enough to give him an idea of what their relationship had been like in the past. Or maybe, John had simply not been able to imagine it any different.  
  
"Either way," Sherlock said with blazing eyes, undoubtedly aware of Mycroft's train of thoughts, "you're here. Shan't we begin?"  
  
At that, John actually seemed to fluster.  
  
"Sherlock," he said, but nothing followed. Clearly, the doctor didn't know how to approach this situation at all now they were all present and not speaking about the elephant in the room.  
  
"Maybe it would be wise to sit down and talk for a while first," Mycroft suggested in a calm voice. "Perhaps with a cup of something?"  
  
"Tea," John immediately said, clearly relieved to have something harmless to focus on for now. "I'll go and make some."  
  
He left for the kitchen and after a few moments, the sounds of rummaging through a rather cramped space emerged from the doorway. Mycroft threw a pointed look at Sherlock, who sighed and pointed at one of the armchairs, sinking into the other himself.  
  
"He seems nervous," Mycroft said quietly once he had settled down. "Are you sure you're not asking too much of him?"  
  
"Don't be silly," Sherlock responded harshly. "He's fine. He said he understood."  
  
Mycroft didn't voice that saying so and actually understanding were two different things. Intellectually, John might have understood and agreed, but now that the night had actually come, he might very well not be up to it at all. He had never shown any physical signs of attraction towards Mycroft and in fact, tonight's conversation had been the very first not to be laced by disagreement, distrust or quiet aggression in any way. All the previous partners willing to indulge in the sharing scheme never had had any bad history with one of the partners.  
  
This was entirely new. Things might not go as smoothly as they had both become used to in the past.  
  
John eventually returned, balancing three different kinds of cups and a rather chipped tea pot in his hands. With the armchairs entirely occupied, he settled on the sofa, almost exactly halfway between the brothers. Mycroft wasn't so sure this was the ideal position. It would not do to make the soldier feel threatened.  
  
"I hope this is to your liking," John chattered, clearly trying to overcome the awkwardness of the situation as he served the tea. "I'm sure you're used to better things, but Sherlock's been experimenting with the majority of our tea stock as well as the milk, and I won't take any risks."  
  
"Don't worry, I'm sure it's drinkable," Sherlock said, leaning over and plucking the first filled cup right out of John's hands.  
  
Mycroft received an apologetic look from John and the second one.  
  
"Thank you very much, John," Mycroft said formally as he took the cup, and their fingers brushed briefly against each other.  
  
Mycroft quickly retrieved his hands, watching John swallow nervously and hurriedly look down at the table again. He filled his own cup, then raised it to his lips with an unsure smile and still averted eyes. Taking a tentative sip of his own, Mycroft did not miss that John took a rather larger swallow, undoubtedly to calm his nerves in some way.  
  
Of course, it was Sherlock who quit beating about the bush almost at once.  
  
"So. _Sharing_ ," he said in a more than suggestive voice, meanwhile balancing his saucer-less cup on his right knee.  
  
John suppressed a scandalous cough, and Mycroft finally took pity on him.  
  
"I can see that John is more than unsettled at the prospect of _sharing_ ," Mycroft announced, placing his barely touched tea on the table. "I can't say I'm comfortable making him feel this uneasy."  
  
"Oh, I'm _fine_ ," John immediately said, though sounding far from it. Even Sherlock seemed to pick up on it now.  
  
"But you're not. Why?" he asked stiffly, but Mycroft could detect a hint of upset. "We talked about this. At length. What could still be the problem now?"  
  
John threw a quick glance at Mycroft, than looked back to Sherlock, before sighing and curling both hands around the cup in his lap.  
  
"It's not that I don't want to do this for you, Sherlock," he explained. "It's not that. I just ... I've never seen you do anything but argue or glare at each other. I simply can't imagine how it could possibly be ... nice ... for any of us."  
  
"But I _told you_ ," Sherlock retorted more heatedly. "I told you it used to be different. Sharing - it's something else. It will be good. I know it will be good. We've done it so many time before, Mycroft and I."  
  
At that, John's cheeks coloured a bit.  
  
"Ta ever so, it feels so lovely to hear that I'm one of many," he said, but sounded more embarrassed rather than angry.  
  
"Is it the fact that we are brothers?" Mycroft asked gently. "Does that make you uncomfortable?"  
  
John licked his lips nervously.  
  
"Maybe ... partly." Clearly frustrated with himself, John emptied his tea with three long sips, then placed the cup forcefully on the table. "I just can't imagine you two together, full stop. It might be that you're brothers, or merely that you're brothers who hate each other. I honestly don't know."  
  
"A demonstration, then," Sherlock said fiercely, and before Mycroft could do anything about it, Sherlock had disposed of his cup, got up and approached Mycroft's armchair. With more elegance than the position could possibly entail, he draped himself heavily onto Mycroft's lap, then cupped his face and swooped down for a kiss.  
  
It was a hungry kiss. A kiss that spoke of years of absence and separation. Mycroft couldn't help but kiss back almost violently, his hands curling around Sherlock's back as if he was holding on for dear life.  
  
When their lips finally parted, all Mycroft could do was stare at his brother's face. Sherlock's breathing was quickened, his hair mussed, his lips slightly red from their intense encounter. He looked - beautiful. Mycroft finally uncurled one of his hands to tenderly brush his fingers down Sherlock's cheek.  
  
"You missed this," Sherlock half-whispered in a tone that could only be described as awe.  
  
"So did you," Mycroft responded softly, for once choosing to smile unguardedly.  
  
"Oh my god," John exclaimed.  
  
Suddenly grinning madly, Sherlock jumped back to his feet, only to approach John on the sofa. It was clear John was both shocked and had liked what he saw. His eyes were wide and very blue as he finally tore his gaze from Mycroft's arm chair to focus on Sherlock, who had settled down right next to him.  
  
"You see?" Sherlock said, still grinning and grabbing for both of John's hands to squeeze them. "It's all fine. Wonderful. _Perfect._ "  
  
Mycroft couldn't help but feel warmed that Sherlock would be this delighted after their kiss.  
  
"I - yes," John responded. "But - I mean, wow. How?"  
  
"Who cares," Sherlock called out. "You obviously liked it, so we'll do it, yes? You'll let me share you with Mycroft?"  
  
Any other person would probably have bristled at such an objectifying statement. But not the good doctor. John took one final look at the elation on Sherlock's face, then broke into a soft smile and nodded in agreement.  
  
The kiss Sherlock gave him then rivaled the one shared with Mycroft in its sheer intensity.  
  
When Sherlock tore away, still squeezing John's hand, he looked happier than Mycroft had ever quite seen him before. He got back on his feet, pulling John with him, only to lead him a few steps away from the couch and twirl him around.  
  
"You're an absolute marvel, John Watson," Sherlock announced, and John simply laughed as he was turned and turned. "A miracle. An epiphany."  
  
"Yes, Sherlock, thanks, but you're making me dizzy," John called and Sherlock finally stopped, placing another kiss on John's cheek.  
  
John's eyes, sparkling with genuine enjoyment, turned back towards Mycroft. This time, there was no hint of nervousness around him. He looked utterly at ease with the prospect of their sharing scheme.  
  
"Shan't we begin?" he wittingly mimicked Sherlock's earlier words, and Mycroft stood.  
  
"Yes," was all he said and together, they disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom.  
  
The sex was rather more tender than it was ravishing, and it revealed to Mycroft the true depth of feelings between Sherlock and John. Mycroft had never seen Sherlock so utterly in love with anything but science and gruesome murders.  
  
And finally, Mycroft also realised just why Sherlock had needed Mycroft to share his relationships so dearly in the past. Intellectually, of course, Mycroft had known that Sherlock had lived off the emotions, the proximity, the roughness and tenderness of it all. But actually witnessing and sharing another person's feelings so closely and physically, even if one wasn't really on the receiving end, was breathtaking. Absolutely so. Nearly more than Mycroft could handle.  
  
In the end, John lay curled in between Sherlock's arms, his bare back tucked closely to Mycroft's chest.  
  
"Thank you," Sherlock whispered into John's slightly sweaty hair, for a change sounding honestly grateful instead of shamming gratitude.  
  
While Mycroft couldn't see John's face, the sound of his rough voice spoke of the loving look he had to display.  
  
"You're welcome. I enjoyed it very much." He stilled, then added much more quietly. "Will this be ... a repetitive thing?"  
  
"If you like," Sherlock replied, sharing a quick look with Mycroft.  
  
Mycroft carefully brushed a tender thumb over John's shoulder to give his own quiet consent.  
  
"All right then," John said, and Mycroft knew he had closed his eyes to drift off for a while, leaving Sherlock and Mycroft to look at each other in comfortable silence.  
  
Sherlock had shared his most beloved thing, Mycroft thought as he looked silently as his brother. Maybe their relationship wasn't fully mended yet. But watching the quiet smile on Sherlock's face, it was possibly well worth it to try.  
 _____  
fin._


End file.
